The Letter
by FonicsMonkey
Summary: A week before Valentine's Day, Wendy receives a mysterious love note. In the course of playing detective, she finds out some surprising secrets about the people she thought she knew best...including herself. Rated M for future chapters.
1. Someone Loves Wendy

**[Disclaimer: I do not own _South Park_ or any of its characters...unfortunately :) This story is purely for entertainment purposes.]**

**A/N: This is my first published fanfic, so please bear with me. I'm currently in the process of writing an EXTREMELY long _South Park_ fanfic (with a very complicated and irritating OC), so I'll try to make this one a max of ten chapters. I have the main ideas for this story already fleshed out, but if you have any ideas / requests / burning desires, leave 'em in the reviews section and I'll see what I can do! Thanks and happy reading! ^_^**

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><p>"Wendy! <em>Wen-dy!<em> For God's sake, get your head out of your book and look at this!" I close my physics textbook, focusing my attention on my best friend, Bebe Stevens, whose lips are flying at a hundred miles per hour. "You'll-never-guess-wha—"

"_What_, Bee?" I interrupt, eyebrows raised.

She stops talking, closes her eyes, and exhales deeply. "It's a note," she articulates. One hand shoots out, her ring-laden fingers tightly gripping a white envelope.

"Oh-em-gee!" I gasp, palms pressed to my cheeks in mock excitement. Her smile transforms into a look of disgust. "What, not the appropriate response?" Bebe gets stupid little notes and letters all the time. Usually they're just crappy Post-Its crammed into her locker from guys who are infatuated with her (and, of course, most guys would be infatuated with the prettiest girl in school), and every year around Valentine's Day, her locker is flooded with heart-shaped cards and "be mine" stickers. Not that I'm jealous of Bebe or anything. I have Stan.

Bebe slaps my shoulder with the letter. "No, bitch, this one's for you." Now I understand: for the past few minutes, she's been helping me organize my locker—giving Stan an all-access pass has turned into a nightmare, my locker now littered with gym socks and crumpled bags of Cheesy Poofs. Apparently, that's where she found the envelope.

I grab it from her. "This is for _me_?"

"Ironic, huh?" she says with a smirk.

"Sure," I answer, fingering a small red heart embossed on the front. "I've never gotten a valentine before… Well, besides the ones from Stan."

She rolls her eyes. "Just fucking open it already." I turn over the envelope and slowly begin peeling off the flap. "Can't you just rip it open like a normal person for once?"

"I want to recycle it," I say simply.

"That's what recycling bins are for."

"No, I mean, I want to personally reuse it. Enough trees were cut down for this envelope; what's the point of killing more?"

Bebe blows a wisp of hair from her eyes. "You're such a buzzkill sometimes, Wenz."

I ignore her. "Plus, paper isn't cheap. In these hard economic times—"

"Oh my gosh—stop being such a Jew and open the goddamn letter before lunch starts."

I'm not sure whether or not to call her out on that. You know, the whole Jew thing. It's not like Kyle Broflovski, the only Jew in our grade, is my friend… More like a friend by association. Still, hearing Jew jokes spew out of Eric Cartman's mouth 24/7 has made me a bit sensitive to stuff like that. Whatever. I have more important things to do right now.

The adhesive finally gives, letting me lift the flap and catch a glimpse of the paper. "Cardstock," I mention.

"You _would_ know that," Bebe teases. I gingerly pull out the note. "Well, what does it say?"

I clear my throat and read the small letters:

"_Valentine's Day is coming up in 1 week. I know Marsh is your valentine, and that's OK, because I'm not looking for a valentine. I'm not just looking for a good fuck either._"

I look up. "What the hell?"

Bebe's eyes are wild. "Keep reading!"

"…_I'm not just looking for a good fuck either. I don't know what I want. I just want to tell you that I love you._" I stare blankly at the words, searching for some hidden meaning.

"Well?" Bebe presses. "Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Does it have a name on it?" She moves closer to peek at the letter. "Oh, crap, it's in those weird magazine cutout letters. Like in the spy movies."

I nod. "Looks like whoever it is, he really doesn't want me to figure out his identity."

"But we're going to, right?"

I look at her dubiously. "Bee…"

"Come on, we_ have_ to! It's…" She trails off. "What if it's some amazingly hot guy who's just dying to be your valentine?"

"He's not," I snap. "He explicitly stated that he doesn't want to be my valentine. Whatever the hell that means. Besides, Stan isn't going to like it very much if I go hunting for some mystery guy." She eyes me carefully. I see that mischievous twinkle. Oh, Jesus. "Bebe, I'm _not_ going to dump Stan for this guy."

"Oh, but you want to."

"No, I don't. I don't even know him!"

"But he knows you! And he effing _loves_ you!"

That's true. He does claim to love me. And Stan has never said…

No! Stop it! What am I thinking? Of course Stan loves me! We've been together for years! "Listen," I say stoically, "we're going to drop it. Right now. I'm going to rip up this letter and go have lunch with my boyfriend. End of discussion."

"Wen—"

"End. Of. Discussion." I shove the letter in my bag and head off to the cafeteria.

As I make my way down the hall, I hear Bebe shouting, "What are you so afraid of?" I shudder involuntarily. _Nothing_, I tell myself. _I'm not afraid_. Except that I am. I'm terrified…terrified that this mystery valentine is _that guy_, the guy I've wanted for so long to stop liking, the one whose face sometimes pops up when I'm making out with Stan. I shake my head. _No. It's not him. And I don't like him anyway. I love Stan._ I tell myself this as I enter the lunch line.

But Bebe's last words are still ringing in my ears.

...

His smile. That's what gets me every time. Every time we have a fight (rather, he screws up), we make up almost immediately; I can never stay mad at him for long. All he has to do is flash that beautiful grin, and I'm spellbound all over again. The best part is, he has no idea how much I love his smile.

I watch him stroll through the caf, making his way to the end of the lunch line. As if Stan Marsh would ever _dream_ of cutting someone in line. Of course, Stan's so popular that any freshman in his right mind would give Stan his place in line. Especially those lowerclassmen on the football team. It's a basic societal law… The quarterback rules the school.

It's not surprising that most girls at South Park High hate my guts. _"What the hell is Stan Marsh doing with the fucking editor of the school newspaper? The one nobody reads?" _Um, sorry, but where were you guys when Stan and I started going out in third grade? When he wasn't the it-boy with the perfectly tousled hair and defined abs and broad shoulders? Well, _I_ was there, watching stick-thin, sensitive Stan puke all over my shoes on a weekly basis. I helped him get through his parents' divorce at age ten, tutored him when he almost failed math at thirteen, and became his first kiss at fourteen. _That's _why I'm his girlfriend, you stupid whores.

Yep, the nerd _can_ get the jock.

Stan stops at his usual table and drops off his overloaded backpack with Kyle Broflovski and Kenny McCormick before stepping behind me in line. "Hey," he whispers, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I meet his mouth with mine, our lips parting for a brief moment. He wraps his arms around me from behind and gently nibbles my earlobe.

Hmm. Stan is usually pretty prudish about kissing me in public, so if he's acting like _this_, something good must have happened. "Did you just ace a test or something?"

"Nope," he replies, his eyes half-lidded. He jams his hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a small square package. _Trojan_.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"My parents are gone all weekend," he breathes. "We have the house to ourselves."

I can't believe it. We've been planning this for a while, but we could never find an extended period of time during which one of our houses was free. Even though he just got his driver's license, and we're two responsible seventeen-year-olds, our parents won't even consider letting me and Stan drive down to a B&B by the lake for the weekend. My dad would have an aneurism if he knew that Stan and I are ready to…well, you know.

Have sex.

There, I said it.

Anyway, back to Stan, who's being completely un-Stan-like. "First some PDA, then pulling out a _condom_ in the middle of school?" I poke him playfully. "Who are you and what did you do with my boyfriend?"

He blushes and puts the condom back in his pocket. "You're always telling me to be more assertive…"

I capture his lips in a kiss. "Mmm-hmm. It's not a bad thing." Stan flashes his pearly whites and envelops my hand in his. We move forward in the line a bit. "Hey, Stan?"

"Yeah?"

"You love me, right?"

Ouch. As soon as I ask it, I wish I could take it back. His smile sours, a pained expression taking over his features. "This isn't the place to talk about that, Wendy."

"I just…" I sigh, trying hard not to come off as a bitch. "I don't want to rush things if you don't feel strongly enough about me."

Stan looks flummoxed. His hand drops from mine, and his eyes dart around nervously, trying to see if anyone is looking. "Are you _breaking up with me_?"

I take his hand again. "Look, just forget about it. I'm having a weird day—"

"Because, you know, I'm trying to be as respectful to you as possible. I don't want to say I'm madly in love with you and then something happens and…" He looks down. "I don't want to hurt you."

Jesus. Why is he so damn _nice_ all the time?

I look him straight in the eye. "I get it, Stan. Like I said, something weird happened, and I wanted to make sure you're really in this for the long haul. And of course you are, and I never should've doubted you." I grabbed two trays, handing him one with a small smile.

He eyes me warily. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but, uh, what, happened today?"

"I'll tell you," I say, grabbing a small salad and some OJ, "but you have to promise not to get mad."

He piles up his tray with two slices of pizza, a chocolate chip cookie, and a carton of milk. When he sees my reaction, he replaces the cookie with an apple. "It depends on what it is."

"Alright." As the lunch lady rings up my food, I procure the letter from my bag. "Here you go."

Stan reads it and frowns. "What is this?"

"A love letter to me, apparently. I found it in my locker."

"I see." He scans the room. "One of these bastards is trying to steal my girlfriend."

I roll my eyes. What is he going to do about it, anyway? It's highly unlikely that a guy with a Save-the-Whales t-shirt and a journal full of sad goth poetry stashed in his closet is going to beat someone up anytime soon. "Just let it be. There's no point in figuring out who did it unless I'm interested in him, which I'm not."

"Fine." He jams his hand into his front pocket and gestures for me to follow him.

"What, you want me to sit with you?" I usually sit with Bebe and the rest of my friends, and on the rare occasion that I do sit with Stan's little clan, arguments ensue. Always.

"Yeah, I do," he says. Aw, how sweet. "I don't trust any of the guys here _alone_ with you." Okay, maybe not.

"Stan!" But it's too late. We're standing at the table. I can't just leave now. That would be rude.

Damn my social etiquette.

Stan plonks himself down in a huff, biting into his apple with all the fury of…well, a guy whose girlfriend has another suitor.

"Don't forget to chew," I mutter. He shoots me a look.

"Uh oh, trouble in paradise?" Kenny jokes, flipping his shaggy blonde hair to the side.

Kyle stares at me— No, _through_ me. "You're breaking up again, aren't you." He says this in a monotone, more as a statement than a question.

I find this offensive. Sure, Stan and I have broken up a number of times, but it's gotten a lot better over the past year. Kyle seems to be a grudge-holder, and even though we get along perfectly well when we're doing a project or working on the school paper, he's pretty protective of Stan, his "super best friend." Ugh. That's the annoying thing about dating Stan: I've never doubted that he cares about me, but it's so obvious that if Kyle were a girl, Stan would be head-over-heels. Thank God Stan is the straightest guy I know.

"We're not breaking up," I inform him.

"Then why is Stan doing _that?_" Kyle retorts, arching an eyebrow.

I look at Stan. He's pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, a habit usually reserved for special occasions—when he loses a game, or when Kyle punches Cartman in the face, or when his dad tries to become a celebrity chef…

"Why are you freaking out about this?" I murmur, nudging him softly.

Kyle looks genuinely concerned. "Freaking out about what, dude?"

"_This,_" Stan replies bitterly, sliding the piece of paper across the table.

Kyle picks it up and carefully examines the note. His brow furrows, ruddy curls wilting into his face. He pushes them away and looks up, perplexed. "I don't understand what this is."

I begin. "Someone put a—"

"Some _'tard_ put a love letter in Wendy's locker!" Stan exclaims. "'Cause apparently it's totally cool to do that to someone's _girlfriend_."

"Do you know who wrote it?" Kyle asks quietly.

"Not a fucking clue, Kyle."

"And what about you, Wendy?"

"I don't care," I reply wearily.

"So, what you're telling me, Stan, is that some douchebag likes Wendy, and you don't know who he is, and Wendy doesn't reciprocate his feelings."

"Yeah," Stan mumbles.

"Then I gotta ask, dude, why do you care?"

"Because he could steal Wendy away from me!"

I laugh. I try really hard not to, but it kind of slips out. Stan and Kyle look surprised. "Stanley Randall Marsh, I can't believe you're worried that _I'm_ going to leave _you_." He looks at me blankly. "Oh, come on, you know the way girls look at you. You could have any pretty girl you want. I wouldn't be surprised at all if one day you threw caution to the wind and got with Red, or Bebe."

"Don't even think about it, man," Kenny interjects, smiling wickedly. It's common knowledge that Kenny and Bebe are fuck buddies. They try to keep it under wraps—hell, Bebe even denies it to _me_—but the color of the lipstick smears that magically appear on Kenny's neck after he and Bebe "go to the library" during study hall coincidentally match up with Bebe's trademark fire-engine red lips. And they think _we're_ the stupid ones. I guess it's true what they say about blondes… They're dumb, _and_ they have more fun.

Stan blushes for the second time today. "I don't know if all that is true…"

"Sure, dude, whatever," Kyle snorts. "Not like the quarterback gets all the girls or anything."

Thankfully, this tangent to our conversation leads off in a whole new direction, and everyone forgets about the letter…until, of course, Cartman comes and ruins everything. What else is new?

He struts into the caf after a few minutes, pushing Kyle to the edge of the bench in order to sit next to Kenny (possibly the only person besides pathetic little Butters Stotch who can tolerate copious amounts of Cartman). If Kyle is agitated by that, his face doesn't show it, but he's gotten better at ignoring Cartman's obnoxious behavior. He had to, after the Big Fight of '09… I won't get into that now, but let's just say that after getting suspended for a week for kicking the shit out of Cartman, it's in his best interest to keep his anger under control. Although, it should be noted that Kyle gained some serious respect after that; now Cartman is the only one to ever make fun of him for being a Jew.

God. What an asshole.

"'Sup, dudes," Cartman yawns, stretching in such a way that he almost whacks Kyle in the face. He catches my eye and lifts his chin. "Dudette."

Hey, anything is better than _hippie_. Or _bitch_.

"Do you really need three hamburgers?" Kyle asks pointedly, glancing at Cartman's tray.

"_Yes_, Kahl, I do. I burn a lot of calories, you know. I need to keep up my strength."

"You lift weights, Cartman. Not burning too many calories there."

"Just shut your goddamn Jew mouth, okay? I'm way more in shape than you."

Kyle frowns and continues eating. The sad thing is, Cartman is actually buff now. Still pretty chunky, but less fat and more, well, _large_.

"So," Cartman says, "what'd I miss?"

"Wendy got a love letter," Kenny announces. "And Stan's being a big pussy about it."

Cartman smirks. "I gotta see this." Kyle pushes the note in his direction, and Cartman flips it open. Immediately his smile fades. "Wha… The fuck? _Windy_ got this?"

"What?" I ask sharply.

He looks honestly confused. "This isn't… I mean, you shouldn't…" He notices everyone staring at him and clears his throat. "What I mean to say is, you couldn't possibly have gotten this note. I bet you wrote it yourself."

Kyle's mouth makes a flat line. "_What?_"

"Seriously, you guys, there's no way Windy Testaburger got a love letter. Who the hell would _love_ her?"

Stan grits his teeth. "One more word, asshole—"

"I didn't write it," I say evenly. "And I don't care who did."

"_I _do."

"I know you do, Stan."

"I kinda want to know now, too," Kenny adds, leaning forward.

"I'm sure you could figure it out pretty easily if you wanted to," Kyle remarks. "All you'd have to do is ask around, and eventually you'll get to a guy who acts funny, or blatantly denies it in such a way that you _know_ it's him. But it won't be easy. 'There's no way to read a man's mind by looking at his face.'"

"_Macbeth_," I note.

Cartman folds his arms. "Y'know, I think it could very well be Kahl. He's always so jealous of Windy for spending time with his so-called 'best friend' Stan… Maybe he's actually jealous of _Stan_ for spending time with _Windy_."

"No," Kyle says.

"And all this time, he's never had a girlfriend because he can't find someone as nerdy as him, when all along it's been right in front of him: Windy!"

"No."

"And now, Kahl, you're trying to get her to look for the source of the letter when, in reality, it's only a cover-up for yourself, you crafty little Jew-rat! Trying to steal your best friend's girlfriend, and then lying about it? Oh, I knew you were devious, Kahl, but not this much. But it makes perfect sense, you and the hippie. You're both liberal assholes, you don't cut your hair, you get off on calculus textbooks… Kahl! Kahl, are you listening to me?"

He snaps his fingers in front of Kyle's face, but Kyle has completely spaced out. We look to see what has Kyle so spellbound. It's Token. His shirt is lifted up, showing off his amazingly toned torso to a couple of giggling sophomores.

Oh, did I forget to mention that Kyle is an unabashed homosexual?

Whoops. Sorry about that.

"So much for Kyle liking Wendy," Kenny snickers.

"It could happen," Cartman mutters.

Stan steals one of Kyle's fries, happily munching away while Kyle continues to stare at Token. "Dude, you don't seem to get that he's gay. Like, he's not interested in girls. At all."

Cartman waves him off. "I know, I know. It's just that it's a lot less fun to call him a fag if he actually is one."

That word snaps Kyle back to attention. "I told you I was gay over a year ago, Cartman. Get over it."

"I can't. It's hard enough to sit at lunch with a daywalker Jew, but a _faggot_ daywalker Jew? That's too much for my po' widdle brain to handle."

Kyle's face turns the color of his hair. "You…" He closes his eyes and blows some hair out of his face. "I'm going to the library for the rest of lunch. Anyone besides the fatass care to join me?"

"Sorry, can't," Stan replies with a grimace. "I have way too many overdue books and I don't feel like dealing with the bitchy librarian today."

"Me too," Kenny pipes up.

"And it's worse for you," Cartman says to Kenny, "since you can't afford to pay the 25-cent late fee."

Kenny looks at Kyle, then at Cartman, then back at Kyle. He lifts his tray. "Fuck this shit, let's go to the library."

Kyle looks back at Stan. "Sure you don't want to come?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I actually have to talk to the coach about some scheduling stuff." Stan squeezes my shoulder and gets up. "You mind taking my tray back, babe?"

"No problem," I say, happy that he's mellowed out a bit.

Once Kyle, Kenny, and Stan are gone, I'm left with Cartman. Alone.

"Why didn't you go to the library with them?" Cartman questions, narrowing his eyes. "Don't you, like, live there?"

"Are you kidding? I'm not going anywhere with Kenny and Kyle. Can you imagine? All I'd hear is, 'Whoa, did you see Clyde in those jeans yesterday?' 'Oh, yeah, totally, so hot.' 'Guys are awesome.' 'I know, guys are _so_ hot.'"

"That's true. It kinda fucking sucks that Kenny is a fag. I thought he was one of the good ones."

"He's not a 'fag', dick-head. He's bi."

"Same difference." He slurps his milk. Ugh. Table manners, please.

"What, you don't have any names for bisexuals?"

He looks thoughtful for a second. "Um… AC/DC."

"The band?"

"No, like alternating current and direct current."

"I don't get it."

"You know… It goes both ways…"

That makes me chuckle. _Eric Cartman_ made me chuckle. What are the odds? "That's actually pretty clever. I had no idea you knew anything about current. Did you come up with that all by yourself?"

He smiles his smug smile. The one I hate. "Hey, I pay attention in Physics, bitch. I may look like I'm spacing out, but my grades don't lie."

I wouldn't be surprised if he gets straight A's. He's actually a fucking genius. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone _ever_. I've never even admitted it to myself before. I don't _want_ to, but it's true. He's done some stupid things in his life, but he's a future CEO if I've ever seen one.

He'll probably become evil dictator of the free world some day.

This is when I realize, _wait, I'm having a conversation with Cartman_. Not a screaming match, but an actual conversation. Maybe he's not such an asshole.

I finish the rest of lunch with him, and as we head to English, we bump into Kyle and Kenny. "You guys fuck in the reference section?" Cartman sneers.

Yeah, so maybe he's still an asshole.

Kenny starts talking to Cartman, and I fall instep with Kyle. "So," he says offhandedly, "you really don't want to know you wrote that letter?"

"Nope."

"Come on, you do. Admit it. Your brain is currently running through every guy in our grade, wondering who wrote the damn thing. You're an intelligent person, Wendy. And that means you're curious."

He's right. Of course he is. I _do_ want to know. Not because I want to run off with this mystery guy, but because I want to satisfy my curiosity. Kyle knows me all too well.

"What if I help you find the guy?" Kyle whispers. "We don't have to tell anyone what we're doing, especially Stan. It could be like a secret project. We could each try to find the guy, and see who finds him first."

"A little friendly competition?"

"You could say that."

I bite my lip. "And what's your motivation to do all this?"

Kyle grins mischievously. "Isn't it obvious? I want to win."

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><p><strong>So? What did you think? Leave a review, friends!<strong>

**xoxo,  
>FonicsMonkey <strong>


	2. Accosted by Blue Eyes

**[Disclaimer: I do not own _South Park_ or any of its characters...unfortunately :) This story is purely for entertainment purposes.]**

**A/N: You probably noticed in the last chapter that I didn't give many character descriptions. I did this for a reason; who wants to be bogged down by "Kyle Broflovski, Stan's best friend, is a red-headed Jew who..." and the like? I assume that if you're reading _South Park_ fanfiction, you know/love the show's characters already and don't need unnecessary background info. Just wanted to put that out there.**

**Enjoy!**

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><p>I've never been a girl who loves shopping.<p>

Sure, I've been known to treat myself to some boots or a nice handbag every now and then with the substantial wad of babysitting money I've accumulated over the past few years, but I wouldn't call myself a shopaholic. There is usually only one true shopaholic in a group of friends. And in this case, that would be Bebe.

Bebe has been a shopping addict for God-knows-how-long. Back in fourth grade, she created an elaborate scheme to make Clyde Donovan the most popular boy in the class…so that all the girls could take turns being his girlfriend and get free shoes from his father's store. Ah, typical Bebe.

Seven years later, she's still insane about shopping, which is why we're spending our Monday afternoon poring over _Vogue_ and the latest Hollister and Abercrombie catalogs.

"Why do you still order catalogs?" I question, internally gawking at the price of a bedazzled jacket. "All the inventory is online. You save paper that way."

She pulls out a fat red Sharpie to circle something in the magazine. "I like being able to dog-ear the pages and physically highlight the things I want," she replies, looking at me as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And what's with you and paper today? Planning on being an environmentalist now?"

"Nope. Just a hippie." Bebe grins and swipes at me with the mag.

I stopped trying to shake the "hippie" label years ago. It doesn't matter that it's not my fault that my long hair is so damn unruly and I care about the earth and how screwed-up the government is; the conservative parents of South Park have brainwashed their kids into shunning anyone who doesn't share their right-wing values.

Conformists.

"What are you wearing to Token's party?" Bebe asks, interrupting my thoughts before they turn into a raging rant of liberal ideologies.

"I have no idea."

"But it's on _Saturday night_."

"Exactly. I have almost a week. I'll figure it out Saturday afternoon."

She looks aghast. "You know it gonna be the biggest party of the year, right?" Which is somewhat true, but only because _a)_ it's the day before Valentine's Day, so there will surely be even more hook-ups than usual, and _b) _Token Black's family is extremely wealthy. Like my-house-is-four-times-the-size-of-anyone-else's wealthy.

I close the catalog I'm reading once I get to a pair of jeans that are so ripped, there's less fabric than a pair of underwear. "What about junior prom?"

"That's not a _party_," she explains. "It's an event."

"Right…"

"Heidi's wearing that blue thing with the stripes. You know… The one she got when we went to the mall over Christmas break?"

I struggled to remember the specifics of our mall trip. "Define 'blue thing.'"

"The blue thing! The thing that looked like a jumper or whatever, but also kinda like a dress-thingy…"

"Oh, right. That detailed description totally helped me know what you're talking about."

She looks up and lets out a sigh of exasperation. "Wendy…"

"I'm sorry, okay? I just don't really care what people are wearing to the party, or what I'm wearing… It's not like I have to attract anyone's attention."

"What, just because you already have a boyfriend, you can't look good?" Bebe jumps off my bed and continues without letting me answer. "Listen, you should make an effort! You're a beautiful woman, Wendy Testaburger! Show off what God gave you!"

I look down at myself. What did God give me? Two barely B-cup breasts, a square-ish frame, pasty white legs that are—thank God—virtually hairless, a round and perky butt… (Before Kyle announced his sexuality, everyone thought that one day it would come out that our pre-exam study sessions were actually a front for our "covert relationship," and Bebe used to remark often that if Kyle and I had kids, they would have "the most perfect asses in all of mankind.")

I shrug. "I'm not insecure about my appearance. I just don't see the point in piling on tons of mascara and wearing some low-cut dress with my boobs pushed up to my chin."

"Who said that's what dressing up is all about?" Bebe grabs my shoulders and swivels me around to face my full-length mirror. "Now, let's see here… Some blush to show off those cheekbones, a little bit of lip-gloss… Ooh, wait right here!" She runs to closet and fishes out a green dress that I bought for Ike Broflovski's Bar Mitzvah and never wore again. As soon as she holds it up against me, I remember why I liked it in the first place—the torso is a stiff green corset, and underneath the wide black belt is a cascade of rippling emerald velvet. It's stunning.

"Okay," I say with a sigh, defeated. "I guess I'll wear this to the party." Bebe squeals with excitement. "But no make-up, okay? I'm not interested in looking like a slut."

"You're such a party poop," she whines. "_Literally_."

"I think you mean 'figuratively.'"

"I think I mean, 'shut the hell up, Wendy Testaburger." She throws a pillow at me before making her way to my bedroom door. "I gotta get home before I miss my dad's stupid curfew."

I nod sympathetically. "Still six o'clock?"

"On school nights, yeah. Ugh, it fucking sucks. What am I, twelve fucking years old?"

I follow her down the stairs and open the front door for her. Just as I'm about to hug her and say goodbye, I notice Kenny walking through my front yard. He waves. "Hey, Wendy," he greets me with a smile.

Bebe's face lights up. "Hi, Kenny," she says coyly, slinking down the steps until they are standing face-to-face. "What are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

"Just wanted to give Wendy something she forgot at school." He winks at her and keeps walking to the door. Bebe looks like she's having heart palpitations as she waves goodbye and jogs off.

I fold my arms. "So, you need to give me something?"

"Yeah." He pulls a big book out of his backpack. "You left your physics textbook in the science lab this morning and I forgot to give it to you at lunch."

Wow. That's…nice. "I appreciate it a lot, but…you trekked across town just to bring me my textbook?"

"What can I say?" he remarks, grinning. "I'm such a kind individual. Speaking of acts of kindness, would you mind letting me use your bathroom while I'm here?"

"Yeah, of course. It's right upstairs."

"Thanks."

Once he's upstairs, I start thinking: _Why would he bother coming all the way here for my stupid textbook? He's never shown much interest in me before._ Wait a second. All of a sudden he cares about me, perhaps even—dare I say it—_loves_ me?

Did he write the letter?

Oh my God.

I never considered him as a suspect, but jeez, maybe that's his angle. Touché, Kenny McCormick, touché.

He returns a minute or so later. "Nice towels," he mentions. "I really like the giant T's. I assume they stand for Testaburger."

"You would be correct in your assumption." I keep waiting for him to say something, maybe ask me out or something…?

For Pete's sake, Wendy! Even if he _is_ the letter writer, if he asks you out, it's not like you can do anything about it. No matter how amazingly blue his eyes are.

_Shut up, brain. You don't know anything. You love Stan. Get that into your thick skull._

"So, Wendy," Kenny starts, "now that I've done you a favor, maybe you can do one for me."

"Sure, anything." _Go out with you?_

Brain, what did I tell you?

"Can you come to Craig's house with me?"

Huh?

"Um, why, exactly?"

His voice lowers. "You know how I've been getting my, like, _stuff_ from Craig?" I nod. Everybody gets their "stuff" from Craig Tucker. His parents care so little about their son's life that they've failed to notice the weed-dealing operation that's been up-and-running in Craig's bedroom for almost two years.

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, he said he won't give me my stuff this time unless I bring you with me."

"And why can't he just say whatever he needs to say to me on his own time? We see each other all day long in school."

"Have you seriously already forgotten the whole Seven Minutes in Heaven thing at Bebe's sweet sixteen? If Craig even comes _near _you, Stan'll murder him."

"It's not Craig's fault he got stuck with me!"

"True. But it's totally his fault that he tried to stick his finger up your hooch."

Right. I forgot about that. Must have blocked it out of my memory. _Ew._

"So, what, I just come with you to Craig's house so that you can get your, um, stuff, and he'll tell me his spiel, and we'll be done?"

"Pretty much."

"Okay. But then you and me are squared away on the favors."

"Yep."

As we head off to Craig's, it dawns on me. "Wait a second, I didn't leave my textbook in class. I purposely left it in my locker because I'd finished the homework during study hall before lunch. In fact, I had it with me when Bebe found the letter." I narrow my eyes. "Did you _break into my locker?_ Just so that I would owe you a favor?"

"No," he replies. But his denial is dripping with guilt. "Okay, yes. Well, no, I didn't break in. You didn't close your lock right when you left school so it was open, and I got the idea as I was walking by it on the way to the bus. I knew you wouldn't want to come to Craig's house since he's such an asshole, so I needed an entrance plan."

I'm not sure what to say. "Wow. Whatever Craig has to tell me better be _really_ important."

"It is." His sky-blue eyes stare directly into my soul. At least, that's how it feels.

_Settle down,_ I tell myself sternly_. It's the last day of your period; your hormones are fluctuating rapidly. Whatever you are feeling right now isn't real. It's nothing like what you feel for Stan_.

But then again, having little crushes on the side is normal, right? As long as I'm not thinking about _that guy_…

Dammit. Now I am.

At least _he _didn't write the letter. At least, I'm pretty sure he would never do anything like that. Rather, I _hope_ he would never do anything like that.

Or is it that I hope he would?

…

Shortly before we arrive at Craig's, Kenny gets a text from Craig saying that he's going to quickly take a shower, and that we should let ourselves in if we get there before Craig is out. And that's exactly what we do.

"Aren't Craig's parents going to wonder why two random teenagers are breaking into their house?" I consider, noticing a car parked in the driveway.

"Nah, I do it all the time," Kenny replies. "Craig's parents don't give two shits about him, anyway." He turns the unlocked doorknob and pushes his way inside.

The first thing I think is, _it's dark._ The only light is the pulsating blue haze emanating from the TV, which is muted. I hear the faint sound of water running and…is that snoring? That's when I notice there's a man lying on the couch. "Is that Mr. Tucker?" I whisper.

Kenny shrugs. "Yeah. Don't worry about him. When my dad drinks, he yells. When Craig's dad drinks, he goes into a mini coma. He'll be out for hours."

"Is he always like this?"

"Pretty much."

"What about Craig's mom?"

"Probably out hittin' the bars for younger guys." He gives me a small smile. "For all the crap people say about _my_ parents, at least they love the hell outta each other."

I follow Kenny out of the living room and into the kitchen. He immediately begins rooting around in the fridge. After a few moments, he pulls out a stalk of celery. "Really?" I balk. "Stealing vegetables?"

"Mrs. Tucker is going through some super health nut phase, so goodbye saltine crackers and hello celery sticks!" He jubilantly bites into the celery like it's a bar of chocolate, grinning a green and toothy grin.

I roll my eyes and sit down at the kitchen table. The tabletop is littered with magazines. I pick one up. _Playboy. _"Ew!" I drop it like a hot tamale.

Kenny chortles. "Don't be so uptight, Wendy. I'm sure Stan has a sock drawer full of stuff like this."

I give him a good hard glare and reach for the magazine again. Who knows? Maybe it's not _completely_ degrading to women.

After flipping through the first few pages, I realize, yeah, it still is. Just like I thought.

But then I stumble upon an actual article. With words. It's titled "What the Fuck?: What It Means & How to Use It." I scroll through it. It's literally a piece about the F-word, and although I have no interest whatsoever in reading it, I have nothing better to do while I wait for stupid Craig Tucker.

When I get to the third paragraph (all about the etymology of _fuck_), I notice something peculiar; it looks like someone cut out one of the words in the article. I carefully dissect the sentence: _But _ is much more than just an expletive._ The missing word is obviously _fuck_.

Suddenly, something flies through my head. _I'm not just looking for a good fuck either. _The line from the note! Of course! I flip through the rest of the magazine, sporadically finding pages with cut out words. Why else would someone cut out words from a magazine if not to put them in a secret love letter?

Everything is crystal clear now. It explains why the elusive, indifferent Craig Tucker would want to invite me over to his house. He is the one who wrote the letter. He is in love with me. Wow.

"You're not supposed to touch other people's stuff."

I'd know that nasal voice anywhere.

I whip around to see Craig standing right behind me. I expect him to look mad but he doesn't. Then again, the only expression I've ever seen on his face is a blank stare.

"O-oh, sorry," I mumble. Did I mention that the only thing he's wearing is a towel wrapped around his scrawny waist? He's not even wearing his goddamn chullo (after all these years, he's the only guy in class who still wears a hat every minute of the day). His floppy jet-black hair is pushed to one side, showing off his cobalt-blue eyes. It's a darker, richer shade of blue than the color of Kenny's. They're…intense, to say the least.

Shut up, Wendy.

"So, dude, I brought the girl," Kenny says cheerfully, placing a hand on Craig's shoulder. "Now can we get to business or what?"

Craig doesn't take his eyes off mine. "I guess. Let's go upstairs."

We follow him up the stairs and into his bedroom. It's the plainest, most boring bedroom I've ever seen. Kenny immediately makes himself at home, dumping his heavy bag onto the floor and lying down on Craig's bed. While Craig searches his closet for some clothes, I awkwardly take a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him stretch into a tight-fitting black t-shirt and put on dark jeans under his towel. "So…" I begin carefully, "would you mind telling me why I'm here?"

Craig stands barely a few feet away from me. _Because I love you, Wendy._

"I like Bebe," he says abruptly.

"_What?_" I sputter, unable to contain my shock.

He repeats it calmly, like a mantra. "I like Bebe."

"As in, _like_, like?"

"Yes."

This is unbelievable. First he writes me an anonymous love note, and now he's trying to make me jealous by feigning interest in another girl? "You made Kenny bring me here for _this_?"

"Well…" He hesitates for the first time. "I need you to set me up on a date with her. I would be _so_ happy."

Hah. That's funny. Bebe and Craig on a date. "She's kind of…seeing someone right now." I glance at Kenny, who's looking pretty damn innocent. As if.

"She has a boyfriend?" Craig asks flatly.

"No, more like a—"

"Friend with benefits?" Kenny offers up.

"_Yes,_" I say steadily. "A friend with benefits."

Craig shifts slightly. "So?"

"_So_, she wouldn't be interested. And even if she was, I'm not going to play matchmaker, especially not between you and my best friend."

This leaves Craig silent for a while. He looks at Kenny, then at me. "If you don't get me a date with Bebe, I'll tell Stan that you and me fucked."

I can't help but laugh. "Oh, like he'll believe your word over mine."

"He will if I have these." He strides over to Kenny's backpack and pulls out a piece of material. Once he holds it up, I realize what it is: my panties.

"Where did you get that?" I hiss at Kenny.

He raises his eyebrows. "I was at your house, Wendy, remember? I was 'in the bathroom.'"

I can't believe this. _Kenny_, stealing _underwear?_ That's low, especially for a nice guy like him. Then again, I don't really know Kenny at all…

"You were in on this, too?"

Kenny holds up his hands. "Hey, I just did what Craig told me to do. I need my grass, man."

I sigh a heavy sigh and turn to Craig. "So what, you're going to show Stan the underwear and somehow convince him that we had sex? It could be _anyone's_ underwear!"

Kenny chortles. "Your towel isn't the only monogrammed piece of fabric in your house, Wendy." Craig stretches out the panties, showing off a big W sewn in the front. Whoops. Forgot about that.

In the beginning of junior year, I started regularly going to the pool, and my mom decided to stitch my initials in my underwear so that they wouldn't get mixed up with someone else's in the locker room. The whole thing was so ridiculous that I had to put a stop to it, and I managed to catch her just as she was sewing the first W in one pair of panties. And these are said panties.

"How did you know I have monogrammed underwear?" I ask Kenny, my voice rising to a pitch I didn't know it could reach.

"Bebe told me," he answers coolly. Typical. She _would_ tell Kenny secrets about her best friend.

Craig's mouth twitches at the edges, the closest he'll ever get to a smile. "These are yours, Wendy. I'm sure Stan has seen them before." Of course he has. He laughs every time he takes off my pants and sees me wearing them. "What do you want to do?"

I weigh my options. On one hand, I can set Bebe up with Craig, but that doesn't sound too appealing. On the other hand, I can tell Craig to fuck off, but that means risking my relationship with Stan. I guess I could always explain the whole situation to Stan and hope that he believes me, which he wouldn't; in what universe would Craig make Kenny steal my underwear so that he could blackmail me into hooking him up with Bebe?

In this universe, apparently.

But it still sounds ludicrous. Which is probably why Craig created such a convoluted plan to begin with.

_Plus_ I'd have to admit to Stan that Craig doesn't really like Bebe, and that he's only doing this to make me jealous because really, _he_ wrote that love letter.

Of course, if Stan decided to believe this, he would probably beat Craig to a pulp.

None of the possibilities look too bright right now.

But I know what I must do.

I manage to coax my dry lips into spouting a feeble "I'll do it" and yank my underwear out of Craig's hands.

He licks his lips. "Cool."

I look at Kenny in disgust. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

Just as I'm about to leave, I notice something colorful on Craig's wall. It's a giant bulletin board that was hidden behind the open door when we first came in. The vibrant words and pictures contrast sharply against the rest of the dull white and gray room. "That's Craig's 'feelings' board," Kenny snickers.

"It's not a feelings board," Craig retorts. "It's just a stupid thing my mom bought so I can tack up random crap I like."

I peer closely at the board. The majority of it is covered with cutouts of skateboarders (which makes sense, since Craig was the one to start the whole skateboarding trend in eighth grade amongst the boys in South Park) and—lo and behold—magazine clippings. Upon further investigation, I'm able to conclude that yes, the articles on the board are probably from _Playboy_. By the time my eyes reach an area of the board that is completely covered by the word _fuck_ in different fonts, I realize that Craig regularly cuts things out of magazines, and that they have absolutely nothing to do with the letter I got.

And we're back to square one.

Well, square one-point-one; at least I know the writer is probably not Kenny or Craig.

Once I'm out of Craig's house, I'm about to trudge home in the snow when I get a text from Stan: _Sisters in town. Moms making chicken quesadillas & oreo cake. U in? :)_

I smile just as wide as the emoticon's smile.

When Stan's sister Shelly comes down from Denver to visit, Mrs. Marsh makes Shelly's favorite food, which is, coincidentally, my favorite food, too. Add to it Mrs. Marsh's amazing culinary skills, Mr. Marsh's eccentricity, and Shelly's wry wit, and you get one fun evening. Not to mention how adorable and newlywed-ish Stan's parents can be sometimes, having only remarried two years ago… Needless to say, I'd give anything to have Stan's family instead of my own.

So I reply to the text…

_You bet._

…and head off for Stan's.

* * *

><p><strong>What'd ya think, audience? Since I won't be putting any CraigTweek in my story (sorry, Creek fans), I decided to at least give Craig a cameo. Plus, his role and Kenny's show how wishy-washy Wendy's emotions can be toward love. FYI...she's starting to bug me.**

**So, if anyone has any ideas for future chapters or would like to request a cameo appearance by their favorite character, please let me know in the review section. And LEAVE A REVIEW, PEOPLE! This is all written for you guys... I want to know what YOU like!**

**xoxo,  
><strong>**FonicsMonkey**


	3. Verum Something Something

**[Disclaimer: I do not own _South Park_ or any of its characters...unfortunately :) This story is purely for entertainment purposes.]**

**A/N: Hey, so... It's been over a week since my last update, so I apologize for that. Plus, this chapter is a little shorter than the rest... But whatever. Hopefully you guys will like it. I'm starting to think this is going to take up more chapters than I'd originally planned, especially since it's still Monday in chapter 3, and my story ends almost a week later... So sorry if this is a long fanfic!**

**Just to let you know, there's some smut in here, for all of you who enjoy that sort of thing ;)  
>Anyway, read on!<strong>

* * *

><p><em>DING-dong.<em>

I wait patiently at Stan's door until someone answers, trying hard not to think about how much homework I still have to do, or how my jeans and t-shirt aren't the perfect attire for this occasion, or how annoyingly hungry I am.

Within a minute, I see the knob turning, the door opening wide. It's Stan. He's beaming like Cartman after winning a bet.

_But honestly, why are you thinking about an a-hole like Cartman when your boyfriend is standing right there? Seriously. Stop it._

"Thanks for coming," Stan says, gesturing for me to enter. As I'm about to go inside, he closes the door a bit and steps out onto the stoop. "I want to make sure my parents think you're as wholesome as possible so they won't suspect anything while they're gone this weekend."

I'm about to point out that it's probably not the greatest idea to manipulate his parents, especially when they're so trusting and understanding, but he quickly covers my mouth with his own, his hands cupping my face. I give in to the kiss, allowing his tongue to flick against mine ever so gently. Stan has never been the most assertive kisser, and sometimes I wish I could get some aggression out of him. Now, when he's suckling my lips so softly that it feels like little butterflies fluttering across my mouth, is not one of those times. It takes every ounce of strength I have to pull away. "We should get inside before your parents wonder where you went," I murmur.

He gives me one last peck on the lips. "Yeah, you're probably right." He gives the door a push and lets us both in. "Mom, Dad, Wendy's here!"

Mrs. Marsh pops her head out of the kitchen. "Hello, Wendy! How are you? You haven't been over for dinner in a while."

"I know," I reply with a rueful smile. "I'm just been so busy the last few weeks. Midterms, driver's ed, SAT prep work…"

She shakes her head. "I remember that all too well. My junior year in high school was one of the most stressful years of life."

"Tell me about it."

Her attention turns to her son. "Stan, why aren't you stressed about everything?"

"I have Wendy to copy homework off of," he answers with a shrug. I roll my eyes. His mom chuckles and goes back to cooking.

"Where's your dad?" I ask.

It's Stan's turn to roll his eyes. "In the basement, as usual."

"Still trying to build a robot that makes sushi?"

"Yep. With no luck at all."

"I should go say hi."

Stan groans. "Why?"

"Because I like your dad! And it's rude not to say hello."

"Fine," he grumbles, trudging to the basement door. He kicks it open and steps halfway in the doorway. "Dad, Wendy's here." I hear something jostle, then a loud _bang!_ Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wends, he's not really in a position to come up right now.

"Why?"

"He's not…wearing any pants."

"Oh."

"Or underwear."

"Um—"

"And I'm pretty sure his Japanese-food robot is a makeshift sex toy."

"I…I'm not sure how to respond to that."

Stan looks perturbed. "Then don't say a thing until we're safely upstairs, away from my moron of a father." He takes my hand and leads me up to his room. "Stay here, I'll be right back." I make myself comfortable on Stan's bed while he's gone.

Ah, Stan's room. The same old room it's been since we were kids. Not much has changed, and with all that _has_ changed over the years, it's nice to see something remain dependably normal.

When he returns, he closes his bedroom door and lies down next to me, propping himself up on one elbow. "My mom says Shelly'll be here in around forty minutes, so we have roughly fifteen minutes before I have to go take a shower and put on some 'nice clothes.'"

I cuddle up to him. "Don't you usually shower after basketball practice?" (Yeah, that's right. He does football in the fall _and_ basketball in the winter. My rock star of a boyfriend.)

"Yeah, but they were doing maintenance on the showers in the locker room, and Kyle and I went back to his house afterwards to finish up our poster thing for the history project, so I practically just got home."

"Oh." I don't really mind that Stan hasn't showered yet. When he's sweaty, he's just so…_masculine_.

Stan interrupts my thoughts with a kiss, one that's a little more forceful than the last. We make out for a while until his hands start exploring. Usually it isn't a big deal if he squeezes my breasts and traces around my bellybutton with his thumb, but when his fingers begin to wiggle underneath my pants, I have to push him off. "Stan! Your parents are right downstairs! And we have less than ten minutes!"

He shushes me and captures my lips in another kiss, a dizzyingly passionate kiss. I give up trying to reason with him, letting his hand slide down my skin. When it reaches my mound, I can feel his pinkie rubbing my clit. I try not to moan. I don't let him take off my pants—"We only have five minutes," I whisper.

As we kiss some more, I begin my own exploration, my hands grasping at Stan's shoulders and feeling his muscular chest through the soft cottony fabric of his shirt. One hand makes it down to his jeans; I can see the bulge forming at his crotch, his member pushing desperately at the thick denim. I cup his crotch, massaging it with great care. He grunts softly and his breath quickens as I massage deeper. His hips buck, letting me unzip and pull down his jeans just a bit. I roll down his boxers and his dick becomes apparent, swelling with every passing second, rising and falling in time with his breath. I lick my hands and begin moving up and down its length, getting faster and faster, watching Stan come closer to ecstasy. Finally he erupts, letting out a low guttural moan. I lean over and grab some tissues from his bedside table to wipe his seed from my hands.

We simply lie there for a few moments, breathing heavily. All of a sudden, Stan pulls me in close and mashes his groin against mine. I've always marveled at how our bodies fit together like two perfect pieces of the same puzzle.

"I fucking love you, Wendy Testaburger," he growls, our foreheads barely touching.

"I love you, too." And I mean it. I honestly do.

I think…

Stan gets up and starts removing the rest of his clothes. "Guess it's shower time."

"I'd like a nice hot shower right now," I sigh. He looks at me pointedly. "And no, I'm not suggesting what you think I'm suggesting."

"Good," he says simply, pulling off his shirt. He's now completely stark naked.

For the record, I'm not usually the kind of girl who drools over guys with hot bodies, but I must say, it's _extremely_ difficult to concentrate on anything when a penis and a six-pack are staring you right in the face.

I push myself off the bed and wrap my arms around Stan's thick waist. "Oh, so you'll get down and dirty with me," I tease, "but you won't get _clean_ with me?"

"That's really funny," he remarks sarcastically. He removes my hands from his body and goes to the closet for a bathrobe.

I guess it's weird to be naked and hug someone who's clothed. Not that I care in the slightest bit.

"I'm surprised you don't want to make out with me some more," I comment lightheartedly. "You're way hornier today than I've ever seen you."

This makes him blush. "I sort of prepared before you came."

"_Prepared?_" I repeat with a laugh. "At Kyle's? What did you do, watch porn together or something?"

Stan gets this weird, uncomfortable look on his face, as if I'd just announced that I'm secretly a man. He does know I was joking, right? I mean, he has been the butt of many a gay joke for as long as he and Kyle have been best friends. He knows that I of all people understand that his relationship with Kyle is, although deep and codependent, strictly platonic. He has a girlfriend, for goodness' sake!

I move closer to him. "I'm just kidding, Stan."

He pauses for a second, then shakes his head. "As my Latin teacher likes to say, _est verum in omne mendacium_."

"Verum what?" I take French classes. I've taken French for the past five years. Say something in French (or English, for that matter), and I'll most likely understand it. But this?

"It's not my fault you don't take Latin," he says solemnly. "_Ignosce mihi_." And with those parting words, he leaves me standing alone in his bedroom.

…

After fifteen minutes of intense thinking and Google-searching, I have to come to the conclusion that Stan is hiding something from me. Not that it would take a genius to figure that out or.

According to the Internet, _ignosce mihi_ means "forgive me". I don't remember the rest of the first phrase, so all I'm left with is _verum_, which means "truth", and "forgive me". I have no idea what that all amounts to, but it can't be too goddamn good.

Once Stan gets out of the shower, dries off, and puts on a nice shirt and pants, we head downstairs to wait for his sister to arrive. I desperately want to confront him about whatever it is that he feels he needs to hide from me; as expected, timing's a bitch. As soon as I open my mouth to say something, _anything_, the doorbell rings. Stan springs up off the couch and opens the door. A grinning Shelly Marsh greets her brother with arms outstretched. "How're you doing, turd?" she asks, mussing his hair.

Stan scowls and tries to fix his previously perfect hair. "Don't fucking start with that again."

"Language, Stanley," Mrs. Marsh reminds him, rushing in to give Shelly a hug. As she leans over and embraces Shelly, Shelly crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at Stan, who returns the favor with his middle finger. His mom turns around just in time to catch a glimpse of his finger going back down. "Stan," she warns him.

Shelly smiles. "Haven't changed much since you were nine, have you, Stan?"

"Nope," Stan replies placidly. "I'm seventeen and I still don't have _any_ braces. When was it that you got yours? Age thirteen? Twelve?"

"Don't be a jackass," Shelly says sourly.

"Shelly!" Mrs. Marsh exclaims. "God, you two! Can you _please _get it together for one family dinner?"

Shelly pats her on the back. "Sorry, Mom. We're only kidding around."

They have almost exactly the same conversation every time they get together. And each time, Mrs. Marsh gets upset. I have to laugh. This is when Shelly finally realizes that I'm in the room. "Oh my God—_Wendy!_"

Yeah, she likes me a lot.

She runs over and gives me a big squeeze. "I haven't seen you in forever!"

"I know! It's terrible."

Shelly usually visits from college every couple of months, but because my parents decided in December that a Caribbean Christmas was a great idea, the last time I saw her was over Thanksgiving break. Which is annoying, since Shelly Marsh is one of the smartest, kindest, and funniest individuals I have ever met. On her sixteenth birthday, she didn't ask her parents for a big party; no, what she wanted was a makeover. And she got it. _POOF! _Gone were the baggy clothes and ratty hair. By the time her braces finally came off a year later, she was pretty and—no surprise there—popular. Of course, all the resentment she had built up over the years vanished along with the awful headgear. It was around that time that I started coming over to Stan's more frequently, and Shelly and I got pretty close. She used to pull me aside and tell me to "whip that turd into shape and teach him some fucking manners." She was like the sister I never had, and seeing her now just brightened my day.

We start catching up immediately. Mrs. Marsh heads off to find Mr. Marsh, leaving Shelly and me in the living room chatting it up while Stan watches unenthusiastically. I wish I could tell her about the letter, but Stan wouldn't be too happy to find out that I'm still thinking about it.

A few minutes later, Mr. Marsh enters the room.

(Yes, he's wearing pants.)

"Shelly!" he cries, giving her a big hug. "What's happenin', girlfriend?"

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. "No, dad. Just…no."

"It's all good," Shelly says, sitting back down next to me. "Classes are tough, but I still have some time free time to hang out with my friends and whatnot."

Stan cocks his head. "You have friends?" Shelly punches him in the arm. "Ow! Shit, Shelly, that…aw, man, it hurts."

"Don't be a wimp," Shelly teases.

Stan turns to me. "Do you see what I have to deal with here?"

"You can handle it," I retort, rubbing the spot on his arm where she'd punched him.

Shelly shakes her head. "You coddle him too much, Wendy. You need to wear the pants in the relationship."

"Oh, I already do."

Stan furrows his eyebrows. "Wait, _I_ wear them, don't I?"

"Yeah, uh, of course you do." I shoot Shelly a quick look that says otherwise, and she winks back.

"Hey, Shell," Mr. Marsh pipes up, "wanna see my sushi-making robot? It's really cool."

"The robot can wait until we're done eating," Mrs. Marsh asserts as she walks in. "Dinner's ready."

"But Sharon!"

"No but's, Randy. I'm sure everyone's hungry."

"Sorry, Mr. Marsh," I say kindly, "but I'm really looking forward to those quesadillas."

His face falls. "Alright. But after dinner?"

"Uh, sure."

"Great."

Once we've all sat down at the table and started eating Mrs. Marsh's incredible chicken quesadillas and buttery mashed potatoes, I ask Shelly about the drive down from Denver.

"It was good," she replies. "I was able to come up today 'cause both of my Monday classes were canceled, which is pretty much unprecedented for me, since most of my teachers are super adamant about showing up and getting things done on time."

"Speaking of getting things done," Stan mutters, "I gotta go to the bathroom."

I wrinkle my nose. "Ew, Stan." He smiles and leaves the table.

"Was the traffic bad?" Mrs. Marsh asks.

"Not really," Shelly replies. "Why?"

"Well, you were a little late coming over… I don't care, but I know how much of a stickler you are for arriving on time."

Shelly puts down her fork. "Okay. That was for a completely different reason, and it was really weird. So I stopped at Tweek Bros. Coffee as I usually do, but it took me forever to get my drink. Why? Because out of the blue, this woman in line starts screaming at the cashier about recycling."

"Recycling?" Mr. Marsh repeats quizzically.

"Yes, recycling. Apparently she had noticed on her way in that there were some magazines in the trash, and she was angry that they were being thrown away instead of being recycled. The poor cashier was trying to tell her that a customer had complained this morning that the magazines—you know, the ones they keep on the table in the front for people to read… The customer had complained that the magazines had a bunch of words cut out of them—"

My ears perked up. "Words cut out of them?"

"Yeah. Weird, huh? So anyway, he told the customer she could throw them away, you know, not really thinking about whether or not she would put them in the trash or the recycling bin or whatever. And this woman in line wouldn't listen to a word the cashier had to say. She just kept on yelling until she felt she had made her point."

"That's bizarre," Mrs. Marsh comments. "If I were her, I would've just moved the magazines to the recycling bin and not bothered the cashier. I mean, who makes a scene like that over magazines?"

Mr. Marsh nods. "A better question would be, who cuts out words from coffee shop magazines and just leaves them there?"

I can't take any more of this. It's driving me insane. "Excuse me," I interject quietly. "I'll be right back."

I dash off into the kitchen and pull out my phone. _The coffee shop might still be open, right?_ I look at the clock on the wall. Damn. It's not a Harbucks; it's a little family-run coffee shop. They have normal hours.

I pull out my phone anyway, hoping I might be able to reach an employee cleaning up after hours or something, but the battery's dead. Great. Now I'll have to wait until tomorrow to call them, and by then the magazines will probably be in the dumpster. I just need to _see_ them. And I want to figure out who wrote me that stupid letter, but not enough to go fishing in a dumpster.

As I'm contemplating my next move, I see Stan, who's sneaking into the kitchen with his eye on the Oreo cake. "Stan."

He jumps. "Jeez, Wen, I didn't see you there."

I guess now is as good a time as any to ask him about the Latin thing. "Stan… Can I talk to you? It's important."

"Sure." He looks concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I just… About what you said to me in Latin…"

He sighs. "Wendy, forget about that."

"Are you…hiding something?"

"Wendy," he says slowly, putting his hands on my shoulders. "It's nothing. Honestly. Just forget I said anything."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

I smile. "Okay. Thanks. I wanted to make sure it wasn't anything serious."

"If it was serious, I'd tell you."

"I know." I snuggle into his chest. "I trust you one hundred percent."

"Good," he whispers. He's holding me close, but his voice sounds strained. It's probably due to the fact that I basically just accused him of doing something bad and keeping it from me. God, am I stupid. Stan loves me. He would never do anything to hurt me.

He's the most honest guy I know.

* * *

><p><strong>Whoa. Some foreshadowing there, perhaps? And now the mystery deepens... Will the coffee shop magazines help Wendy solve the mystery? (Hopefully, or else I just wasted ten minutes of your life.) If you want to find out, look out for the next update! And remember, REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! And tell people about the story if you like it. I would be <em>so<em> happy.**

**xoxo,  
>FonicsMonkey<strong>

**P.S. For those who are curious,_ est verum in omne mendacium_ means "there is truth in every lie." (Ooooh...)**

**P.P.S. I had so much fun writing Randy Marsh's lines ^_^ Out of context, they'd sound like a four-year-old. Or a ghetto teenage girl. Whatever, I love it.**


	4. The Jelly Stains

**[Disclaimer: I do not own _South Park_ or any of its characters...unfortunately :) This story is purely for entertainment purposes.]**

**A/N: Whoa. It's been so long since I last wrote! But have no fear...a fresh update is here! :D This chapter has some nice clues going on, so pay careful attention, especially all of you who are so sure you know who wrote the letter.**

**Happy reading! (And remember to REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!)**

* * *

><p>You know those days when it's really, really cold outside, but the gods decide to send down rain instead of snow? So the water falls down as sleet, accumulating in great heaps of slush along the sidewalk?<p>

Yep. Today is one of those days.

As I stand in front of my locker after school, picking out which folders I need for tonight's homework, I feel a tap on the shoulder. I close my locker door to see who tapped me and find Kyle standing at his locker directly on my right. "What's up?" I greet him, sliding the last folder into my bag and turning the dial on my locker until the door locks shut.

He smiles me one of those amazing Kyle smiles. Stan's make all the girls want to jump his bones, but when Kyle flashes his pearly whites, you feel like you're a million bucks, like he genuinely cares about whatever you have to say. "Not much," he replies cheerfully. "I was just wondering how you're getting along with the love letter investigation."

"I have some leads," I reveal cryptically.

"Like what?"

"I'm not going to tell you, Mr. Let's-Make-This-a-Contest! Why, do _you_ have any leads?"

He shakes his head, his curls flopping all over the place. "Nope. All I know is that it can't be Timmy."

"Why not?"

"Didn't you see him today in Art, cutting out his self-portrait with scissors? He cut straight through his face! He couldn't possible have cut out those tiny words from a magazine."

"Plus," I add with a chuckle, "knowing Timmy, a love letter from him would be addressed to 'Timmy'."

"And I don't think there are that many appearances of the word 'Timmy' in mainstream magazines."

I laugh as Kyle stuffs a textbook into his bag and closes his locker. "So besides that, you don't have any evidence pointing to a particular person?"

"Well…" He leans back against the lockers contemplatively. "Unless it's Mark."

"_Cottswolds?_" I say in disbelief.

"Yeah, who else would I be talking about?"

"I don't know, but Mark Cottswolds has never liked a girl. Ever."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that—"

"Why do you think he wrote the letter?"

"Wendy, he stares at you _all the time_. Remember when you got a hundred perfect on the super-hard Calc midterm, and it was announced over PA system the next morning?"

"Of _course_ I do." Duh. I was the first student in six years to score a hundred on that test. I wouldn't forget that.

"Well, when that was announced, he started touching his…_private area_."

"_No_," I hiss, aghast.

"You better believe it," he responds seriously. "He was fondling himself in the back for a full ten seconds."

"I _knew_ that kid had issues!"

Kyle rolls his eyes. "His whole family has issues. You would be crazy, too, if you had a sexually-depraved sister and a dad secretly addicted to cocaine."

"That's just a rumor," I scoff.

"Come on, you've seen him at the School Committee meetings. He sniffs between every word!"

"Whatever. Bottom line, I have no interest in Mark Cottswolds."

Suddenly a buzzer rings out, signaling a PA system announcement: "_Announcement to all those on the boys basketball team._" Kyle raises his eyebrows. "_Coach Kern's car broke down because of the storm, so basketball practice has been cancelled for today. That is all._"

Kyle pumps his fist in the air. "Yes! I'm _way_ too tired to run around a gym in short-shorts right now."

I wince. "Yeah, those shorts are a bit too short."

"You'd think our team captain would do something about that," he remarks sarcastically, his lips curled into a snide smile.

I'm not sure how to respond to that.

When both Stan and Kyle received an equal amount of votes from their teammates in the election for team captain in November, the coach told them to decide it for themselves. Kyle stepped aside to give Stan the position, and Stan let him. Everyone knows Kyle is a better player and loves basketball more than almost anything, so it has been a source of friction in their relationship; pretty much the _only_ source of friction. Being the "super best friends" they are, they basically got over it within a few days, but it's still a sore spot for Kyle.

Luckily, a beep from Kyle's backpack distracts him from whatever awkward sludge might come out of my mouth. He unzips the bag and pulls out his cell. "Speaking of Stan…" he says slowly, squinting to read the message. "Hmm."

"What?"

"He's checking to see if I want to hang out." He quickly types a response before glancing up at me. "Interested in tagging along?"

"Just you and Stan?"

"No, the usual."

Great. The usual. That means Kenny and the fatass. I can't decide which one I'm looking forward to seeing more. At least Cartman doesn't feel the need to steal my _underwear_ and use it to blackmail me into helping his friend.

It's not like I have anything better to do on a Tuesday afternoon than hang out with my boyfriend and his gang.

"I'll come," I say with a sigh. "I assume they're still here."

"Yeah, they're waiting outside in the car." I know "the car" must be Stan's; besides Token and Clyde, nobody else in our class has a driver's license, let alone their own car. Stan's parents bought it last fall to congratulate him when the SP High football team won the state championships for the first time. Ever.

Ah, the perks of dating the quarterback.

Kyle and I gather our stuff, put on our huge coats (necessary for surviving Colorado winters), and make our way to the school lobby. Through the wide glass doors, we can see the harsh sleet bearing down on our poor little town.

"Any chance you brought an umbrella?" Kyle asks hopefully.

"Nope. But it's not like it would help, anyway." It looks like the wind is blowing at about a thousand miles an hour.

Kyle looks down and shuffles his feet. "Maybe we should wait for the weather to settle down."

"It's not _going_ to settle down."

"Yeah, but… My hair's going to get all wet."

I stare at him. Really? Really? His _hair_ is going to get wet? "Kyle, I don't know if you've noticed, but Stan's car is right outside. Do you see it? _Right_ out there. We'll be out in the sleet for all of four seconds."

He sighs. "But I finally got the right shampoo to conditioner ratio this morning. My hair has never looked so good."

It's true. His curls do look incredible. Let me tell you, it's pretty hard to make a Jewfro look good, but he is certainly pulling it off.

Nevertheless, I'm starving, and I would like to get a move on.

"Just because you're gay, it doesn't mean you have to _act_ so damn gay all the time," I scold. "Now suck it up, and let's go."

He fluffs up some curls, takes a deep breath, and pushes open the doors. We dash out to the car as fast as we can. Out of habit, I open the front passenger seat door, only to find Cartman sitting inside. "Dude, get out," Stan barks. Cartman grumbles and complies. I'm about to get inside when Kyle ducks in before me. I'm so wet and cold at this point that I don't bother arguing about it, so I get in back next to Cartman, shutting the door before the seat gets covered with snow—at least, the slim part of the seat that isn't covered by Cartman's fat ass.

"Kyle," Stan exclaims. "I didn't kick Cartman out of that seat for _you_."

Kyle's face colors. He turns around to face me. "Oh. Sorry, Wendy. Force of habit."

_Force of habit. _I'm not sure why, but the fact that it's a "force of habit" for Kyle to sit shotgun in Stan's car—just like it is for me—bothers me a little. _They're best friends_, I remind myself. _Of course Kyle would have a familiar seat in Stan's car. _But it still bothers me.

Stan sighs. "Whatever. Can we please just decide where we're going before my tires get frozen to the pavement?"

"That wouldn't happen in such a short amount of time," Kyle reasons.

"Shut the fuck up," Cartman groans. "Nobody gives a fuck."

Stan frowns. "Cool it, Cartman. He was just—"

"—trying to show what a smart fucking cunt he is," Cartman finishes.

"Dude!" Stan cries. "Wendy's right there!" He knows how much I hate that word.

Cartman cross his arms. "Speaking of cunts, who invited the stupid ho anyway?"

Stan hits the wheel hard. "Jesus Christ! That's my girlfriend!"

"You better shut up _right now_, Cartman," Kyle warns him.

"Or what?" Cartman counters, faking fear. "You'll do a little gay dance? Give me a mani-pedi?"

"Do you even know what a mani-pedi is?" Kenny asks with a smirk.

"Of course I do. Gosh, Kinny, what do you think I am, an idiot?"

"ENOUGH!" I explode. Everyone stops talking. "Good. Okay, look: I'm really, really hungry, and I'd like us to make a decision _now_ so I don't have spend the next hour sitting here squished between the window and Cartman's rolls of fat."

"Ay!"

"Wendy's right," Kyle says. "Where are we going?"

Stan rolls his eyes. "Well, before you and Wendy got here, we were talking about maybe going to Harbucks—"

"No!" Cartman yells. "We're not going to fucking Harbucks! We're going to Tweek Bros!"

My ears perk up as I remember what Shelly told me yesterday. This would be a perfect investigation opportunity. "Yes. Let's go to Tweek Bros."

"_You_ want to go to Tweek Bros?" Stan says in disbelief. "What about all that 'they don't treat their workers fairly' stuff?"

"Oh, and you think Harbucks treats their workers fairly?"

"Who cares about the stupid workers?" Cartman inputs impatiently. "I want a goddamn bear claw, and you can only get them at Tweek Bros, so let's go. Now."

"I agree," I say quietly.

"See! Even Windy wants to go!"

"No, Cartman!" Kyle cries. "You always get to decide where we go, and this time you're not going to get your way and you're going to have to deal with it."

"Dude, maybe we should go to Tweek Bros…" Stan says hesitantly.

Kyle narrows his eyes. "You're just saying that because your girlfriend wants to!"

"What's wrong with that?" I ask crossly.

Kenny just shakes his head. "You guys are such pussies. Let's stop by Harbucks so Kyle can get his gay little mocha-frappa-whatever, and then we can go to Tweek Bros. so Cartman can get his bear claw and Wendy can do whatever the fuck she needs to do. And Stan'll be happy 'cause his girlfriend's happy. Everybody wins."

And everyone nods because yes, that is actually a very good plan. So we head off to Tweek Bros. with a car full of happy people, the happiest being me, since I'm about to get one step closer to finding out who wrote the letter.

Well, I'm not entirely happy. I'm still jammed next to Cartman.

It's alright, though. He smells of lavender and sweat, a combination that, in this situation, isn't entirely unpleasant.

_What?_

No, I didn't just think that. Not a chance in hell.

…

Once we're at Tweek Bros., we have to put two tables together and pull up an extra chair. Cartman and Kyle are in the middle of a heated argument about Obama.

"He's a fucking Islamic terrorist," Cartman declares, pounding his fist against the table.

"He's not Muslim _or_ a terrorist, r-tard!" Kyle shrieks.

"Oh, yeah? How the fuck do you know, Jew? Are you best friends with him or something?"

"Ugh! You're so ignorant, it's disgusting!"

"Really, Kahl? _I'm_ the ignorant one here? No, I don't think so. I know all about Obama's secret alliance with Al-Qaeda. I know that _he_ was the one responsible for 9/11. I'll bet you didn't know any of that, Jew!"

"You know absolutely nothing about 9/11, you fat fuck!"

"I'm not fat, you—"

"I'm going to go get the food," I interject, hoping for a five-minute break from all the chaos. "Whoever wants to put in an order should do that now."

Cartman focuses his attention on me. Of course… The only thing Cartman likes more than getting Kyle riled up is eating. "Bear claw!" he demands, sliding some bills across the table. "Plain, not cherry."

Kenny wrinkles his nose. "Don't you get tired of getting the same thing every single time you come here?"

"No. Why mess with perfection?"

"I'll just have some coffee," Stan requests with a grin. He passes me some money. "Whatever you want is on me."

"Thanks," I say, squeezing his hand. "Kyle? What about you?"

He holds up his fancy Harbucks drink. "I'm good, thanks."

"I'll have a coffee and a chocolate chip cookie," Kenny pipes up. I wait for him to give me some money for it, but he just looks at me expectedly. I know that the guys always pay for him, but I'm way too pissed at him right now to do anything charitable, even if his family is dirt poor. Kyle realizes that I'm not going to budge until Kenny pays me, so he pulls some money out of wallet and passes it to me, gesturing subtly that it's for Kenny's food. I sigh and take everyone's money to the register.

There are some other people ordering, and the guy at the register takes his time making the drinks, so I have to wait around. After a minute or so, I notice Craig Tucker, Clyde Donovan, Token Black, Tweek Tweak, and Jimmy Valmer enter the coffee shop. _Oh, God._ Of course, they all plonk themselves down next to Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny. Now I have to endure not only the fabulous foursome, but their five wonderful frenemies, too.

When the drinks are finally done, I take the heavy tray to the little station with the cream and sugar. I know Stan's coffee preference well by now: two packets of artificial sweetener, a lot of milk, and just a pinch of cocoa powder. As I'm stirring Stan's coffee, I see the man who's fixing his coffee next to me lean over and pick something up from the recycling bin. It's a magazine. I almost spill the coffee in my effort to get to the recycling bin. It's empty. I don't know how many magazines there were before, but there's only one now, and it might be one I need. "Excuse me, sir," I say very politely. "Could I please see that magazine you're holding?"

He looks down at me. "Actually, I've been meaning to read this issue for a while. I just happened to see it in the bin now. Funny, huh?"

"Yeah, it's very funny… But you see, I really need to read that particular magazine…"

"Well, miss," he hisses, "you're just going to have to wait until I'm done, now, won't you?" And with that, he struts across the restaurant, stopping to recline in one of the plush couches with his coffee and the magazine. _My_ magazine.

_Well, if he wants me to wait, then hell, I'm going to wait._

I grab Stan's coffee and return to the table, putting down the tray and handing Stan his coffee with a small smile.

Clyde whistles. "Whoo, Marsh, you have her getting you coffee? Aw, man, livin' the good life, huh?" I ignore his blatantly sexist comment and sit down, digging into my food.

"You ordered granola and yogurt?" Cartman remarks disdainfully, eyeing my plate. "It's like you're _trying_ to be a hippie."

"At least she's being health conscious," Jimmy points out. "That b-b-bear claw must have at least four hundred c-cal…at least four hundred ca…four hundred c-calories."

Cartman takes a huge bite of his bear claw, crumbs flying everywhere. "Jimmy, I would totally flip you off right now if I wasn't in bear claw bliss—"

"JESUS CHRIST!" Tweek yells suddenly. We all look to see what caused his outburst, and it seems to have been something in the newspaper he's reading.

"What?" Craig asks flatly.

"It's the government! Congress is divided about the budget again! The whole system is going to collapse! Aaahhh—"

"Calm down," Craig instructs, grabbing hold of Tweek's shaking arm. "Nothing is happening to the system. Everything will be fine."

"Actually," Kyle corrects him, "we _are_ facing a potential government shutdown if the budget isn't balanced by midnight tonight."

Craig flips him off as Tweek begins to freak out even more, flapping the newspaper around until it inevitably knocks over his ever-present cup of coffee.

"Nice going, Broflovski," Token snorts.

Craig stares at Kyle without blinking. "You just had to show off."

Kyle rolls his eyes. I can tell the other guys are irritating him. _Me too, Kyle. Me too._

Tweek is still twitching like crazy, his voice cracking all over the place. "Ah! It's all my fault! I never should have bought that newspaper!"

Kyle shakes his head. "I just don't get why you can't watch the news on TV or read it online like most people."

"I don't get why you have to read the news at all," Clyde grumbles.

"I like physical newspapers," Tweek says softly. "When I'm online, people can install cookies in my browser and steal my identity."

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose. "Tweek, you need to chill out."

"You should do what I do," Token suggests, "and get newspaper apps on the iPad. It's so much more portable and handy."

"Not everyone has an iPad, Token," Cartman reminds him harshly. "We're not all rich and black like you."

Token ignores him. "It's really good for magazines, too. The color is so clear and sharp, I don't even buy actual magazines anymore."

Kyle and I make eye contact. I know we're thinking the same thing: _Token doesn't read magazines. Token didn't write that letter._ Kyle's mouth widens into a smile. "So, Tweek," he starts casually. "Do you read magazines, too? Or just newspapers?"

"Just newspapers," Tweek answers. He's only half paying attention; whatever he's in the middle of reading is making him pull out his hair. Luckily, that's all the information I need. I cross Token and Tweek off my mental suspects list, certain that Kyle is doing the exact same thing.

"You know who _does_ read magazines?" Clyde poses slyly. "Mark Cottswolds." He, Token, and Jimmy burst out laughing.

"What?" I ask, annoyed. I don't want to talk about stupid Mark Cottswolds. Not after I just found out that I'm the star of his sexual fantasies.

Token chuckles. "He sits with us sometimes during study hall, and of course, he finishes his homework in like ten minutes 'cause he's such a genius, so he spends the rest of his time reading _Gray's Anatomy._"

"That huge medical textbook?" Kyle interrupts, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yeah. Except he hides nude magazines behind it. As if we can't see the photos of huge breasts hanging out the side of the book."

Oh no. This is bad. Not only does Mark like me, but he reads _magazines_, too. Regularly! And the letter I received does have the word _fuck_ in it, and most magazines that have expletives are somewhat inappropriate…like nude magazines…

I shake the image of Mark gluing magazine cutout words onto a piece of paper from my mind and remind myself that this new piece of evidence doesn't necessarily mean that he's responsible for the letter. I still have plenty of suspects.

Just as I open my mouth to inquire about Clyde and Jimmy's magazine-reading habits, I notice that the obnoxious man who took my magazine has left, his drink gone, too. I can see the magazine splayed out on the table by the couches. _Now is my chance!_ "I'll be right back," I inform Stan discreetly. He nods and immediately goes back to the conversation, which has now veered into Sportsland, a topic I—yes, very stereotypically—don't care about whatsoever. Besides, all I care about right now is procuring my magazine.

I walk towards the restroom doors, taking a quick detour by the couch area, making sure none of the guys see what I'm doing. I snatch the magazine off the table and hurry to the single-person restroom, locking the door behind me. After using my foot to flip down the dirty toilet lid and taking a seat, I begin leafing through the pages.

And what I find astounds me.

Every few pages has a word or two cut out, and based on the context, it seems that every single word from the letter has come from this particular magazine. Having had the smart idea of keeping the letter folded up in my pocket, I can hold it up against the magazine to see if the shapes of the cutouts match the shapes of the holes in the magazine pages. In an article about Valentine's Day, I find a rectangular hole in the middle of the page, and upon checking the "Valentine's Day" cutout glued onto the letter, I verify that it's a match. And all the other words have matches, too.

I couldn't have had better luck.

But now I have the daunting task of figuring out who the hell did all this. I close my eyes and envision the table full of boys. I know it can't be Token or Tweek, since I doubt that they would purchase a magazine solely with the intent to cut out a few sentences worth of words. It can't be Stan, and it's highly unlikely that it's Kyle. Kenny likes Bebe, and, as I know now, so does Craig, so they're out.

_Crap. I forgot to convince Bebe to go out with Craig. I should do that._

Anyway, the only guys left are Jimmy, Clyde, and Cartman.

Of course, it could also be any other guy in my class. Like fucking Mark Cottswolds.

Just as I'm starting to lose hope, something on the magazine page catches my eye. I pull it closer to my face; it's a purple jelly stain. I flip through the magazine and notice that there are small grape jelly stains conveniently located on _all the pages with words cut out._

Thank you, Magazine God.

My brain hatches a plan. I look at the date on the magazine and see that it was issued on Sunday. I received the letter on Monday morning. All I have to do is figure out who visited Tweek Bros. on Sunday and ordered a grape jelly-filled pastry. The question is, how can I do that?

I think hard. I think so damn hard that my head starts reeling.

I have to tell you, being intelligent rocks.

Within a minute, I know what I have to do: obtain access to the surveillance footage from the coffee shop. I've noticed a small camera hiding on the ceiling in the corner of the store, and that thing must record every single purchase made daily.

I just have to coerce Mr. Tweak into giving me access.

Or I could coerce his son…

A little sucking up to Tweek should get me what I want. And then I'll know who left those jelly stains!

As I fold up the letter and stuff it back into my pocket, I can't help but realize that Cartman couldn't have written he letter, either. Kenny mentioned how Cartman orders the same thing every time he comes here, and what did Cartman order? A plain bear claw. The only thing inside that is almond paste.

I don't know why, but my heart drops a little.

No.

_No,_ it didn't drop.

What am I saying? I'm not disappointed that Cartman didn't write the letter. I'm psyched!

Aren't I?

* * *

><p><strong>Ooooooh. So...some stuff happened. Wendy is confused. (Hell, <em>I'm<em> a bit confused!) All she has to do now is win over Tweek. What should she do to win him over? Got any good suggestions?**

**Also, who wrote the letter? What do YOU think? Leave me a review with your predictions!**

**xoxo,  
>FonicsMonkey <strong>


	5. The Extortion of Tweek Tweak

****[Disclaimer: I do not own _South Park_ or any of its characters...unfortunately :) This story is purely for entertainment purposes.]****

**A/N: Hi, everyone. So...yeah, it's been two whole weeks since my last update. Sorry about that :/  
>Anyway, this chapter isn't super exciting, which is why it took so long for me to write (that, and a new furry little edition to my family has been making my life chaotically busy). It's just necessary to progress the plot.<strong>

**So, without further adieu, ENJOY!**

* * *

><p>"Did you hear a single word I just said?"<p>

I snap back to reality, noticing Bebe standing in front of my desk, arms folded indignantly. "Sorry," I say with a sigh. "I was trying to finish my math homework."

Bebe rolls her eyes. "Study hall isn't for studying, Wenz. You're such a nerd."

"Did you just come over here to criticize me, or what?"

"_No_, I'm here to ask you what the hell you were doing yesterday afternoon."

"Uh…I hung out with Stan and the guys."

Bebe pulls up a chair and sit down across from me. "Are you fucking kidding me? After two weeks of planning our shopping trip around your stupid busy schedule, you ditch me for 'the guys'? And you don't even bother to answer your phone?"

Oh, crap. Yesterday was Tuesday. She's completely right. I was supposed to go shopping with her after school. "Bee," I plead, "please, I…I forgot, honestly."

"Whatever," she replies, waving me away. "I don't actually care that much. I just wanted you to feel bad about it for a few seconds."

Typical Bebe.

"I _do_ feel really badly about it," I assure her. "What did you end up doing instead?"

"I still went shopping. I just brought Red along, instead."

"_Red?_" God, I hate Red.

Well, I don't exactly _hate_ her, but it's certainly hard to like someone who constantly tries to steal your boyfriend.

"Yes, I brought Red," Bebe answers with a smile. "And she had something _very_ interesting to say."

"What?"

Bebe scans the room quickly, pulling her chair in closer. "I can tell you, but you have to do me a favor, okay?"

"Okay, I promise not to tell anyone."

"No," she hisses. "That's not the favor. Just…will you do something for me if I tell you?"

"Bebe, when have I said no to doing you a favor? Just tell me what it is."

Bebe breaks out into a huge grin and leans over to whisper in my ear. "Red likes Butters."

I frown, not quite understanding what she just said. Red _likes_ Butters? "Everyone likes Butters," I remark quizzically. "He's the friendliest guy in—"

"Wendy, she's fucking in love with him."

My mouth drops open, and I quickly look at Butters, who is sitting in the corner of the room with headphones on, cheerfully singing along to Selena Gomez's latest hit. My eyes then avert to Red, who is painting Heidi Turner's nails a disgustingly bright shade of pink and discussing the price of D-cup breast implants.

"I don't get it," I whisper to Bebe. "She can have any guy she wants, and she chooses Butters."

"I'm just as confused as you are," she snorts, shaking her head. "She thinks he has a cute smile."

"But…they've been going to school together since kindergarten! Why does she suddenly like him _now_?"

"I guess they worked on that math project together a few weeks ago and he was, like, super nice or something. And she heard through the grapevine that he has a pretty big dick."

"Ew!" I squeal, garnering a shush from the study hall proctor. I lower my voice. "I didn't need to hear that."

She claps her hands together. "The best part is, apparently Red heard from Lola that Kenny told Craig who told Jason that Cartman invited Butters and Kenny over for a sleepover just so that he and Kenny could pull some dumb prank on Butters, and he accidentally saw Butters changing and flipped a shit 'cause Butters' penis is, like, twice the size of his."

"And I certainly didn't need to hear _that_, either," I mumble.

"So, bottom line: Red's crushin' on Butters. And speaking of Lola and Jason, they've known each other since kindergarten, too, but Jason asked her out freshman year, remember? And they're still going strong."

"I guess so." My brain is spinning from all this new information. Plus, I'm trying desperately to get the image of Butters' genitalia out of my head. "So…what's the favor I'm supposed to do for you?"

"Right, the favor," Bebe repeats with a flourish of her hand. "I need you to get Butters to ask out Red."

"_Me?_"

"Yes you."

"Can't Red just ask him out herself?"

"She doesn't think he'll say yes. And…" She breaks off.

"And what?"

"Red sort of likes Kenny, too," she snaps.

Of course—Red and Kenny would be a pretty compatible match, and obviously Bebe doesn't want anyone stealing her man. "Jealous, are we?" I tease.

"No! I just…don't think Red and Kenny be a good couple; that's all."

"Whatever you say," I retort. "But I still don't understand why I have to be the one to tell Butters."

"You're closer to most of the guys in our class than I am," she answers. "I mean, because of Stan, you've tagged along with his little group, the football team, and all his other friends. Plus, I know Butters trusts you."

"He does?"

"Yeah, ever since you yelled at Cartman in the fifth grade for telling Butters that girls like it when guys honk their boobs and Butters got detention for grabbing our tits all day. It was the first time that Butters actually realized that Cartman isn't looking out for his best interests."

"So, because of something I did way back in fifth grade, I now have the lovely task of telling Butters that the school slut has the hots for him?"

"Indirectly, yes. Go do that. For me." Bebe smiles and motions for me to get up. I don't really want to do this, but I also don't want Red to make a move on Kenny; Bebe would probably beat the living daylights out of her.

Letting out a sigh of defeat, I shut my math textbook and make my way over to Butters' table. As I'm about to tap him on the shoulder, I feel myself hoisted up into the air. "What the hell?" I cry, arms thrashing. Soon I'm dropped with a resounding _thud_. I whip around to see Cartman standing there, staring at me. "What was _that_?" I demand angrily.

He raises his arms in defense. "Relax, ho, we're just playing Truth or Dare."

"Who dared you to pick me up?" I look over his shoulder and see Stan, Kyle, and Kenny sitting on the floor. Cartman and I walk over to them.

Kenny shakes his head. "Hey genius," he says with a chuckle, "that's not what I meant by 'picking up a girl.'

"And he didn't mean _my_ girl!" Stan exclaims.

Cartman plonks himself down on the ground. "Calm down, Marsh. Nobody's trying to steal your fucking girlfriend."

"Yeah, dude, you don't need to be so protective all the time," Kyle counsels, putting a hand on Stan's shoulder.

"Nobody wants her, anyway," Cartman grumbles.

_Good God._ "I'm right here, douchebag." He sticks out his tongue.

"Hey guys," Kyle starts brightly, clearly trying to change the topic of conversation, "did you hear about the storm tonight? I heard on the news this morning that we might have a snow day tomorrow."

"Yes!" Cartman cheers. "We should totally go sledding. Just like we did back in the good old days."

Kenny turns to him, eyebrows raised. "What the fuck was good about those days? Kyle was a whiny little bitch, Stan puked on Wendy almost every day, only a fourth of my face was visible, and you were the size of a fucking van."

"Ay!"

"Don't you think we're a little old for sledding?" Stan asks. "It's kind of gay… No offense, Kyle."

"None taken," Kyle responds. "But I think sledding would be awesome."

"Then it's settled!" Cartman declares. "The next time we have a snow day, we'll go sledding, and the Jew will be on my team."

Stan furrows his brow. "Team?"

"Yeah, duh, for sled races. Kahl's the lightest, so his sled will speed along nicely."

"Kyle can't be as light as Kenny," Stan scoffs. "Kyle does basketball _and_ swimming. He has some pretty good muscles built up."

"Fag," Cartman mutters.

"Shut up," Kyle and Stan holler simultaneously.

"Guys, the fact that you say the exact same thing in sync with each other only proves your fagginess."

I want to protest that statement, but Cartman is actually kind of right for once.

"Did I hear you guys talking about a sled race?" Clyde inquires with a smirk, sauntering over.

"Yeah," Kyle replies eagerly. "You in?"

"Of course." Clyde gestures to Token, Tweek, and Craig, whose desks are clustered nearby. "We're gonna whoop your asses."

"It's _on, _motherfuckers!" Cartman cries, slamming his fist down onto his notebook. The study hall proctor, eyes narrowed, calls out Cartman's name and gestures for him to come over. He groans and plods over to her desk, where she begins to give him what I assume is a lecture about swearing. Of course, being Cartman, he nods politely and apologizes sincerely, and she, unlike all the real teachers at this school, believes his bull crap and lets him off easy.

Just as I turn to Kyle and start complaining about Cartman's latest triumph over yet another naïve study hall proctor, Tweek jumps up suddenly. "Ah!" he cries. "Stop making so much noise! I have to finish my math homework before I fail the class!"

"You're not going to fail," Craig wearily assures him.

"Just get a tutor already," Token suggests impatiently, signaling that this is an ongoing problem.

"I can't!" Tweek twitches. "My parents won't pay for a tutor! They think it's a waste of money and that I should figure it out by myself! But I can't! It's all a conspiracy!"

That's when a light bulb turns on in my head. I think of a plan so clever that it even impresses me. "I can get you a free tutor," I promise him. "Just wait one second." I shoot Tweek a look of reassurance before crossing the room and sitting down next to Butters.

Once Butters notices my appearance, he takes out his ear buds and grins. "Why, hiya, Wendy! I haven't talked to you in a while. How are you doin'?"

"Yeah, great, Butters," I answer quickly. "Look, I came here to tell you something _very important,_ okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Alright." I take in a huge breath and look him straight in the eye. "Don't tell anyone else, but Tweek is failing math."

Butters gasps. "W-w-what? F-_failing?_"

"Yes." I nod gravely. "He desperately needs a tutor, but his parents won't pay for one."

"That's terrible!"

"I know…which is why I want you to tutor him."

"M-me?"

"Yes, you. You're great at math—"

"Not _that _great…" he interrupts.

"You're getting an A, right?" He nods. "Good. _And_ you're one of the nicest people I know, which makes you the perfect tutor."

Butters bites his lip, knocking his knuckles together. "Gee, I dunno, Wendy. That sounds like an awful lotta responsibility."

I internally roll my eyes. He's like a giant ten-year-old; why anyone in her right mind would have a crush on him is beyond me. "Look, Butters: Tweek needs your help. If you could just tutor him for free a couple of days a week, I know he'd be appreciative. Plus, I'd make it worth your while."

"What do you mean, uh, 'worth my while'?"

I lean over to whisper in his ear. "I know someone who _likes_ you," I say in what I hope is a tone that's seductive, but not seductive enough to corrupt poor Butters.

"A girl?" he asks eagerly.

"Yeah. A really hot, popular girl."

His eyes widen. "Who?"

"I'll tell you, but you have to promise me first that you'll help Tweek with his math."

"I promise," he affirms solemnly.

"Thanks. It's Red."

Feeling utterly relieved, I start to walk away, but Butters grabs my shoulder. "Hold on! Red likes me?"

"Yes." I glance at the clock. I have five minutes until English class, and I need to talk to Tweek _right now_.

Butters stares at me with an extremely worried frown. "What should I do?"

"Ask her out," I recommend with a sigh. "Don't worry about getting rejected. She'll definitely say yes if you ask her out."

"Well, okay!" he exclaims. "I'll do it!" He gathers up his pencils and papers and heads off in Red's direction. "Thanks, Wendy!"

My spirits soar. With one person bribed, it's time to bribe the other. My eyes land on Tweek, and I walk over to him in long strides. _Four minutes._

"Tweek, can I talk to you privately for a second?" I ask quietly.

Apparently it wasn't quiet enough.

"Ooh," Clyde sneers. "A private conversation with Tweek. Better watch out, Marsh."

Stan looks at Kyle, who simply raises his eyebrows. "Very mature, Clyde."

"I need to talk to Tweek about math," I clarify.

"Ooh," Clyde repeats. "A private _math_ conversation with Tweek. Knowing your girlfriend, Marsh, this is gonna get juicy—"

"Shut up, Clyde," Token interjects flatly.

Tweek looks at me, confused. "Why do you want to talk about math?"

"Just come with me!" I say, pulling him aside in exasperation. "Tweek, you just said you're having trouble with math, so I went and got you a tutor."

"But my parents—"

"He's free."

Tweek stopped twitching (probably for the first time in his life). "Oh God. Is he going to rape me?"

"No!" I explode. "He's not going to _rape_ you! God, how could you say such a thing?"

"Ah! He _is_ going to rape me!"

I yank Tweek further into the corner of the room. "Calm down and listen to me," I hiss. "Butters is your tutor, got it? He's not going to rape you or do anything to you."

"Jeez, you didn't say the tutor was Butters—"

"Let me finish. He's not going to tutor you unless you do me a favor."

"Oh no—"

"Tweek, it's not a bad thing; I promise. I just need you to let me have access to the surveillance footage at your dad's coffeehouse."

He freezes. "Are you a spy?"

I ponder this for a second, nodding slowly. "Yes, Tweek. I'm a government spy, sent here by the head of the FBI to shut down your father's business…and, um, ruin your chances of getting into a good college! So if you want good grades in math _and_ if you want your father's business to stay alive, you'd better do as I say." I let that sink in, waiting for Tweek to laugh in my face.

But he doesn't. Instead, he looks horrified. "Please!" he twitches. "Don't do this!"

Wow. He actually believes it. What an idiot. "I won't," I growl, "as long as I get my surveillance video."

"Okay," he whimpers. "You can have whatever you want."

"I want the surveillance footage from last Sunday in my locker by tomorrow."

"What if it's a s-snow day?"

"Then by Friday!"

"Ah! Alright!"

Well, now I feel bad. Tweek looks genuinely terrified.

But dammit, I need that footage.

"Don't speak of this to anyone, even Butters," I bark, narrowing my eyes for effect. "Understand?" He nods at lightning speed but doesn't utter a word. "Then I've made myself clear. This conversation _never happened_. Bye." I give him one last dirty look before returning to my desk and packing up my stuff.

I still feel bad. Really, I do. But I _need_ to figure out who wrote me the letter, and if the only way to do that is through extortion, then by all means, I'm going for it.

…

By the end of school, Bebe has somehow managed to convince me to hang out with her this afternoon, even though I have boatloads of work to do for the school paper. Sometime between English and art class, we come to a compromise: if she helps me with some of my work for an hour, I'll go to the mall with her and help her "catch cute guys" in the food court to take her to Token's party.

Oh joy of joys.

After forty-five minutes, with Bebe's help, my list has been whittled down to one item. "Can we go now?" she whines. "All the cute guys would've left by now!"

"You have no idea what you're talking about," I scoff. "They'll be there for another ten minutes. Just help me with this one last thing. I have to deliver something to the coach."

"Just call him Jimbo, for Chrissake! Everybody does."

"He's the coach," I explain. "Regardless of the fact that he's Stan's uncle, I want to treat him professionally. Besides, it's good to get brownie points with him, since he _is_ Stan's uncle, after all."

Bebe rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Let's just go."

When we get down to the gymnasium, it's a chaotic mess of sweaty guys in too-short shorts. Some underclassmen notice us immediately as we walk in, combing us—read: Bebe—with their eyes. Lovely.

Bebe stops when she sees Stan. "Hey, Stanny," she hollers, "put on a good show for your _girlfriend_." Stan whips around, getting in a small wave before a ball slams into his side.

"Good job, _Stanny_," Clyde snickers, grabbing the ball and effortlessly tossing it into the hoop. Stan gets up and brushes himself off, his middle finger quickly flashing at Clyde.

"Play nice, you guys," Coach Kern warns. He turns to me with pursed lips. "It's amazing they're able to get it together for the games."

I nod politely. "Coach—"

He puts his arm around my shoulders, smiling broadly. "Please, Wendy, call me Jimbo. We're practically family!"

"Yeah, I guess so—"

"So, what did you need to see me about?"

I pull a stack of paper from my folder and hand it over. "Here's the next edition of the paper. Your interview is on the second page. Just let me know if you want me to change anything."

"Thanks," he replies, leafing through the paper. "Hey, this doesn't look half ba— _SHIT!_" All of a sudden, his foot catches on a backpack sitting at the edge of the gym, and he falls flat on his face. He grabs the backpack and slowly gets up. "Who the hell left their bag here?"

All the guys freeze. I see Stan wince. "It's mine," he calls."

Coach Kern holds up the backpack and shakes his head. "I thought you'd remember what I told you, Stan. Always leave your stuff…"

"…in the locker room," the whole team choruses.

"Exactly. Now go put this away."

"Yes, Coach," Stan mumbles.

He gets halfway across the gym when I decide to take hold of the bag. "I can do it," I offer. "So you guys don't have to interrupt practice."

Coach Kern slaps me on the back. "Thanks, Wendy. What do you say, Stan?"

Stan rolls his eyes lightheartedly. "Thank you, Wendy." He plays it cool and jogs back to the net as his friends laugh, but he shoots me a covert smile, one of his little heart-melters.

Bebe nudges me. "I'm gonna go chat up that redhead on the bench," she whispers.

"Isn't he a _freshman_, Bee?"

"Yeah," she snorts. "But look at those arms. _Mmm_. Yeah."

I chuckle. "You're incorrigible."

"And speaking of redheads—"

"Hey, guys."

I jump, feeling a hand on my shoulder. "Please tell me that's Kyle and not the weird redheaded freshman."

The hand turns me around.

Yup, it's Kyle.

Without a shirt.

"Goddamn you, Kyle," Bebe breathes. "Why do you have to be gay?"

He follows her gaze…which is leading right to his chest. "Oh, um…" His cheeks turn scarlet, and he untucks the sweaty jersey from the waistband of his shorts.

Poor guy. The limbs of a basketball player and the abs of a swimmer, and he still only attracts female attention. Hell, I wish Stan had abs like that. Come to think of it, it would be nice if he had full hair like that, too. And those freckles…

_Ugh!_ _Shut up, brain!_ I'm not seriously comparing Stan to his _gay best friend_ right now, am I? Wow. I didn't realize until now just how desperately I need "special" time alone with Stan. This weekend couldn't come fast enough.

"I have to take Stan's backpack to the locker room," I blurt out quickly, slinging the bag over my shoulder. "Be right back." I can't just stand there drooling over Kyle's sculpted torso.

Once I reach the locker room, I loosen my grip on the bag and let it slide to the floor near the others. I sink to the ground and lean up against the lockers, closing my eyes with a deep sigh. _God, I know I haven't been very devoted— Well, okay, atheism is a bit past "not very devoted," but still; if you exist, please get rid of these awful thoughts, the ones about other guys. I don't want to think about Kyle's chiseled abs, or Craig's cobalt eyes, or Kenny's lopsided grin, or… Nevermind. That's it. No other guys in my mind whatsoever. So, if you could just send me some sort of sign that you got all this, that would be great._

_BBBSSSSTTTTT_. I jump up suddenly, holding my hands over my heart. "Jeez, God," I mutter. "Talk about fast delivery." I realize quickly that Stan's phone just went off in his bag, vibrating so hard that it fell out of the front pocket and onto the ground. I gingerly pick it up. _Text message from ANNIE FAULK. _Part of me knows I shouldn't open it, but the part of me that really wants to convinces the other part that I'm Stan's girlfriend, so what's his is mine, right?

I flip open the phone and scan the text. It's just some stupid homework question. I feel so paranoid now.

My fingers start to close the phone, but my eyes land on another unread message, sent early this morning. It's from Kyle. My thumb presses _Read message _before my brain can stop it:_ Stan, you have to tell her. She deserves to know what's going on._ I blink. What?

I open the full conversation, reading through it as fast as I can. It's full of things like "I love her too much" and "I'll tell her soon" and "What are you so afraid of?"

But it doesn't fully hit home until I reach a text sent to Kyle last night: _i'll tell her after saturday. there's no way i'm letting her lose her virginity to some douche._

I feel a lump rising in my throat. Whatever he has to tell me is obviously bad news, or else he wouldn't think that I would break up with him over it. He still wants to have sex with me, so he can't be cheating on me… Or is he? He only mentioned, after all, _my_ virginity…

My heart pumps at a hundred miles an hour. I have no idea what these texts mean, but I have to get to the bottom of this. And I know one thing for sure:

If I can't trust Stan, I can't trust anybody.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm sure most of you think you know what's going on right now with Stan. Let me just say this: you have <em>no idea<em> )**

**Also, what's going to happen with Tweek and the surveillance footage?**

**ALSO, will there be a snow day? If so, who will win the sled race? (Yes, because that is definitely the most intriguing part of the story.)**

**REMEMBER TO LEAVE REVIEWS/COMMENTS! :D**

**xoxo,  
>FonicsMonkey <strong>


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